April 9, 1945 Monday

Hosp. France

Dearest Marjorie,

The Russian campaign against Vienna at least has one good result. It put “Tales from the Vienna Woods” on the air much more frequently than usual. Almost irony to play it at a time like this, isn’t it. But you can’t let war stop all the delicate things. It’s doing a good enough job as it is. It is very sobering to consider objectively the scope of the war now. Look at us, after six years of war in Europe, jumping off on bigger and bigger attacks every day on wider and wider fronts. And after this, another big scale affair to finish up in the Pacific. It’s staggering when you consider the small unit actions involved. Each company fights enough to feel it is winning the war by itself, but thousands of companies are in it, even thousands of divisions. When you think of the destruction of lives and property in all that, it isn’t hard to imagine H.G. Wells’ version of the fall of civilization. Europe at least is in a decline it can’t shake off in years. Churchill speaks of the tremendous job of rebuilding bombed England. Why, England is a peaceful countryside compared to large parts of Europe. What can you expect from the next generation of Europe after a childhood spent under conditions like these? It’s hard to see how the tremendous hatreds being built up can ever be reconciled. How can the French ever forget their treatment under the Germans, or the Germans forget what is going on now. Especially when every family has lost so much.

In spite of morale considerations you can’t laugh off a thing the size of the war, especially as it begins to seem certain that the thing will go right on to the last pocket with no end until one side is annihilated. There’s nothing to do but keep pushing and hope like hell that we have strength to reach a complete victory fairly soon, and that somebody will be able to make something of the pieces that are left. If it goes on too long, there just won’t be enough pieces left, not matter who “wins.”

It’s a monster of a war, but it is overlooking me pretty well these days. The big event for me today was to start a book “Der Fuehrer,” which (can you guess?) is the biography of Hitler, well propangandized but with some straight history as well. Next in order of importance was shaving in the lavatory, not at my bed. Oh yes, and PX rations came today.

I don’t need to say that my life here won’t be easy until I hear from you again. It’s been at least a month now since I had a letter. I know that they will come in time, and until they do I’m picturing you as pretty busy, but well off and greeting spring. The snow still can’t be getting higher and higher as spring gets nigher and nigher. Or is it? 

Gee, I love you, my honey,

Wallace.

April 8, 1945 Sunday

Hosp. France

Dear folks,

Sunday once more. I like Sunday, even if the only difference from other days is that meals are served an hour later as they are here. I guess it’s because you can get better music on the radio. Also you feel a little different.

Not much has happened to me this last week. I expect the doctor will take out my stitches very soon now. Until they come out, it is necessary to use crutches and stay in bed most of the time. It wouldn’t be impossible to walk but there would be danger of pulling the stitches. They are just above my knee and in back where walking would stretch them.

I spend most of my time reading and writing. Right now I am dividing my time between Carl Sandburg and Robert Benchley. One for when I feel sublime and one for when I feel ridiculous. Robert Benchley is more ridiculous that Sandburg is sublime, but I appreciate them both.

Yesterday I was smuggled to a movie. As a bed patient I’m not supposed to go, but I got a few good collaborators and managed to get by without trouble. It was just another musical show but a big break in my usual routine. 

You can see that things are moving pretty fast on the front now. I don’t know where the outfit will be when I get back, but it’s a cinch they are closer to the Russians than they are to me. I know I am a damn fool and don’t know when I am well off, but I still wish I was with my platoon. We aren’t always reasonable with the things we feel. I hate to think of old “C” company going places without me. You think about them all the time, and wonder how things are going. It isn’t just “college spirit” for the company. You get the impression back here that the infantrymen up there are the only ones really doing anything in the war. That’s wrong, but you get the feeling, nevertheless.

The “Goums,” natives of north Africa fighting with the French, are doing something, too. We have been with them before and what soldiers they are. Like old Indian fighters. When they take a town, the town doesn’t know it’s being attacked at all until all of a sudden the “Goums” in red fezes pop up all over the town and blow up everything all at once. They infiltrate into towns secretly and are not even seen until they are close enough to use knives. If you are on guard at night and feel a pair of hands gliding around your helmet, you don’t have to be scared. It’s just a Goum feeling the shape of your helmet to see if you are a German.*

Love to all at home,

your loving son, 

Wallace

*P.S. This didn’t happen to me, but knowing the “Goums,” I believe it.